The hills creep with convoys of aged, stripped off
of nonessentials.
Slow lights wind round and up the upper ridges
to yet another ledge that dwarfs the hills, making
the stern seesaw with every crawl. The ever
rising peak whose basalt skull gleams, sun washed
through thin combing, watches all that passes,
the boulders are its witness but not the hill
within- the hardest one to climb. 'We are pilgrims
of heart's journeys, in quest of a great perhaps'.

Poetry by yoonoos peerbocus
Read 155 times
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Written on 2023-09-01 at 06:42

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